CHAPTER V.

MRS. POWELL.

ABBEY soon found she had fallen into very different hands from Mrs. Ward's or her mother's. Mrs. Powell was not only skilful at all sorts of work herself, but she possessed the rather uncommon talent of making other people work. And Abbey soon discovered that she could no more stand still in that lady's kitchen than she could upon the steps of a treadmill.

Breakfast was on the table every morning exactly at seven o'clock. Abbey's business was to get up and make the fire, sweep out and dust the kitchen and sitting-room, set the table, and have every thing ready for Mrs. Powell to cook the breakfast. Mrs. Powell attended to the cooking. Miss Maria dusted the parlours, and Miss Margaret attended to the plants and birds,—of which Mrs. Powell had a great many. One of the young ladies taught in a public-school, and the other acted as clerk in a large fancy-store down town; and both must be early at their posts.

Breakfast on the table, Abbey must go up-stairs, empty the slops and take the clothes off the beds. So it was all day. Every hour had its appropriate duty, as exactly as every pan and plate had its place in the pantry. There was no chance of shirking. If Abbey left her dishes half washed, she must wash them over, even if she had to make up the fire again on purpose. If she did not sweep clean, she had to sweep over again. Mrs. Powell never did her work after her, even when it would have saved herself a great deal of time and inconvenience.

"It would be a good deal easier for me to do this than to call you away from your dishes," said she, one day when Abbey had left various accumulations of dust in the corners of the stairs. "But I want you to learn to work well while you are about it. I did just so by my own girls, and you see now how nicely and easily they do every thing. It will be worth every thing to you to learn the best way of doing house-work while you are young."

But Abbey did not care any thing about learning the best way of doing things. All she cared for was to get on with the least possible trouble at the time. She might have seen that the true way to save herself trouble was to do her work well in the beginning. But this cost her a little present pains, and the smallest inconvenience at hand was enough to overbalance any profit in the future. She persisted in trying to shirk, till Mrs. Powell began to lose patience, and to think more decided measures necessary to overcome Abbey's laziness.

She had called Abbey every morning at half-past five. And every morning Abbey had answered, "Yes, ma'am," and turned over for another nap, so that she must be called a second time.

"Now, I will tell you once for all, Abbey," said Mrs. Powell, one morning when she had the fire to kindle herself (Abbey not making her appearance till half-past six), "the next time you serve me in this way, you will not find the consequences very agreeable to yourself."

Mrs. Powell spoke with considerable decision, with a "snap" of her blue eyes, and a movement of her head which looked a little dangerous.

The next morning Abbey was up in good season, and also the next, but the third morning was dark and rainy. Abbey had lain awake a long time the night before, reading an old magazine which she found in the garret, and she was very sleepy: so she turned over and went to sleep again. This time she slept a good deal longer than she meant to, and awoke with something of a start.

She sat up in bed, and listened. There was no rattling at the stove, as she would have heard had Mrs. Powell been making the fire herself. The house was all quiet. She could hear nothing but the singing of the birds in the parlour.

"I believe I am awake the first of any one, after all," thought Abbey, as she hurried to dress herself. She found her mistake when she went down-stairs into the kitchen. The fire was out, the stove brushed up, every thing was put away, and Mrs. Powell was out weeding in the garden. She looked at the clock. It wanted a quarter to eight.

"Just like her,—the hateful thing!" said Abbey to herself. "She wouldn't call me, and of course she wouldn't save any thing for me."

Abbey explored the safe and the pantry. There was nothing to be had except dry bread. Even the butter was put away in the lock-up cupboard, and the key was not to be found. She gave up the search, and went out to Mrs. Powell in the garden.

"I don't see what I am to do for my breakfast," said she, in an aggrieved tone.

"I don't know, I am sure," answered Mrs. Powell, who was busy with her strawberries.

"I can't find any thing but bread, and there is no coffee nor any thing," continued Abbey, just ready to cry.

"Isn't there? Then I don't see but you will have to go without," replied Mrs. Powell, carefully pulling out a long bindweed from her raspberries. "There was plenty of every thing at breakfast time, I assure you. And the coffee was remarkably good, as well as the fish-balls."

"You might have called me," said Abbey, sullenly.

"I did call you; but, Abbey, I can tell you one thing," said Mrs. Powell, rising up and collecting her tools: "I shall never call you again. You can get up in the morning just as well as I can, if you only make up your mind to it. If I were to offer you a dollar every morning that you were up in time, you would be ready to rise with the sun. I have been willing to call you so far, that you might form the habit; but you have had plenty of time for that, and you must not expect me to do so any more. It is just as easy for you to get up as for Maria or Margaret. It ought to be easier; for you have nothing to keep you up after nine o'clock. Now remember, this is the last time."

"I want my breakfast," said Abbey, beginning to cry.

"Well, go and get it, then. There is plenty of nice bread, and I will give you some butter for once; but as for any thing else, you must wait till dinner-time. Come, now, let us have no crying over it. Do you hear?"

Poor Abbey! She thought no one was ever so badly used before. She was by no means so good-natured as she had been at Mrs. Ward's. There is a species of sloth in the South American forests, which, even when first taken, will travel with the greatest docility in any required direction, so long as it is allowed to take its own time; but the moment it is hurried, it turns fiercely upon its captors and fights with tooth and claw.

It was somewhat so with Abbey. She could not stand being driven. Allowed to take her own pace,—to be as lazy as she pleased, to shirk whatever she did not like to do, and slight all she pretended to do,—and no one could be more amiable. But this precise regularity and punctuality, this neatness and order, was in the last degree irksome. She could not say that she had too much to do. She had several hours to herself every day, when she could employ herself as she pleased; and she generally chose to lie on the bed and dream of what she would do if she were only rich and had a carriage and servants, and a maid to wait upon her, and several fine young men in love with her, to take her to the theatre and to balls.

But when she worked, she was obliged to work and, above all, fast. The greatest and most ingenious dawdler in the world could not have dawdled under the vigilant eye of Mrs. Powell. Abbey began to find her life intolerable, and to consider in her own mind whether there was any means of escaping from it.

"Come! Hurry, Abbey," said Mrs. Powell, coming into the pantry, where Abbey was slowly munching her bread-and-butter. "I want you to go over to Mrs. Ward's on an errand for me, and, if you are smart, you will have time to run home and see how your sister is. Here: you may take her this bowl of jelly. It will be good to mix in water for her to drink. Get on your hat, and be ready when the car comes along. There will be one in just twelve minutes."

Of course Abbey was not ready at the end of the twelve minutes, missed her car, and had to wait for another.

"What is the matter? Why don't you put your hat on?" asked Mrs. Powell.

"I can't find it anywhere."

"Where did you put it when you wore it last?"

"I put it away," said Abbey.

"If you had put it in its place, it would no doubt have been in its place," said Mrs. Powell. "You have a closet and shelves, which no one meddles with but yourself. But I cannot have you spend all the morning hunting for it. Put on that old black one of Maria's. Now take this note, and the basket which stands in the press, over to Mrs. Ward's, and bring back what she gives you. You will have plenty of time."

Abbey did her errand at Mrs. Ward's, and, with her basket full of strawberry plants, she turned towards home. She was overtaken at the gate by Elvira.

"Why, what brings you home at this time of day?" asked Elvira, in some alarm as the thought presented itself that Abbey, had left her place again. "You have not come home for good, have you?"

"No such luck," said Abbey, peevishly. "I only wish I had a home to come to, so that I need not be made a slave of all my days!"

"I was in hopes you would like Mrs. Powell," said Elvie. "Every one gives her such a good name. And Mrs. Rebecca says no one need wish for a better place."

"No one need wish for a better place!—To be driven like a slave from morning till night!" said Abbey. "I hate living out. I don't see why I should have to work for a living, any more than Mrs. Campion, or Mrs. Frost, or Miss Priscilla."

"Because they are well off and we are poor; that is all," said Elvira. "Besides, they 'do' work. Miss Priscilla practises hours every day, and sews and knits a great deal. She has just finished a whole suit of clothes, all through, for a little girl at the Coloured Asylum,—cutting and fitting and all. Moreover, Abbey, I don't see why it is any worse for you to work than it is for father and mother and me."

"Oh, well, you don't mind it. I believe you really love to dust and sweep and poke over sewing."

"I like to do what I do, 'well,'" said Elvira. "I don't deny that. But I like to do a great many things much better than to sweep and dust, though. I like to work in the garden, and to do the embroidery Mrs. Frost is teaching me, and I should dearly love to go to school again. But, Abbey, you did not like going to school any better than working out. You used to complain of Miss Morse all the time."

"Because she was so partial. She liked every one in the school better than she did me. But I suppose there is no help for it, I must just go on slaving and slaving to the end of my days. And now Tot must go and get sick, to mend the matter; as if Harry was not enough for one house!"

"Abbey, for shame!" exclaimed Elvira, with flashing eyes. "As if the poor child could help being sick! You are the last one who ought to find fault with her; for the doctor says it is very likely she hurt her head when she fell down-stairs that time. And that was all your carelessness, too,—leaving a cup on the stairs, of all places."

"Nonsense!" said Abbey,—turning pale, however. "That was almost two months ago."

"She has never been well since," said Elvira. "She has always complained of her head, and been dull and heavy, ever since it happened. I think you ought to be ashamed."

"I don't care. I don't think you ought to talk so to me, Elvie. I am the oldest. But I did not come home to quarrel, or be scolded at, either. As for the cup, I just put it on the stairs for a minute, while I went for the broom. And then I went up the other way, and forgot it. I don't see that I was to blame about that. Tot ought to have seen what she was about."

"There is no use in talking," said Elvira, struggling to regain the command of her temper. "You and I never do see things alike. Where did you get your new hat?"

"It isn't mine. It is Maria's old one," replied Abbey. "I couldn't find mine. But I mustn't stay any longer now. Just take this bowl in, will you? There is some jelly in it for the young one."

"Oh, Abbey, you won't go away without coming in to see Totty?" exclaimed Elvira. "What will mother say?"

"If there is time," said Abbey, rather reluctantly.

She could not help feeling uncomfortable at the idea that she had any thing to do with Totty's sickness. And this feeling made her unwilling to meet her mother or see the child.

But at that instant, Mrs. Jenkins appeared at the door and called her, and Abbey had no choice but to go in.

She was almost startled out of her indifference when she saw how thin and wan her mother looked, and observed the change in Totty since she had seen her last. No one could be kinder than Abbey when it cost her no trouble. She was very willing now to sit down on the bedside and tell Totty her favourite tales over and over, till the child fell asleep.

"You must not stay any longer now, Abbey; but come again as soon as you can," said her mother. "How well you look! I am so glad you have a good place! It is a comfort to me, in the midst of all my other troubles, that you and Elvie are so well provided for."

"Yes, wonderfully well provided for," thought Abbey; but even she was ashamed to make any complaint of her place, under present circumstances. She turned to the window, where Harry, bolstered up in his arm-chair, was busily employed over some fine work.

"What in the world are you doing, Harry? Making tatting, of all things in the world! What funny work for a boy!"

"If you had to sit still and do nothing as much as I do, you would be glad of any thing in the shape of work," said Harry. "Mrs. Campion brought me this work, and showed me how to do it. I have made one already, and Mrs. R. paid me four dollars for it. It is a trimming for a baby's petticoat. Mrs. Campion said the one I made was as handsome as her Sister's Irish lace."

"Margaret Powell is in Mrs. R.'s store," said Abbey. "She works splendidly. You ought to see the rug she is making. She says it will be worth fifty dollars when it is done."

"What stitch is she doing it in?" asked Elvira, very much interested.

"I don't know. I never noticed the stitch."

"If I were you, I would watch her, and learn all her stitches," said Elvira. "I have learned ever so many of Mrs. Frost."

"Yes: that would be a very good thing for you," added Mrs. Jenkins. "Every such thing comes into use sooner or later. And now so much embroidery is in fashion, you might make it very profitable."

"If you knew how much I have to do, you would not say any thing about my learning embroidery stitches," said Abbey, with a weary air. "I am driven to death as it is."

"Yes, you look like it," said Harry, laughing. And even his mother could not help joining, as she looked at Abbey's fat cheeks. "You are going into a consumption directly: that is plain to be seen."

"Of course 'you' don't think there is any thing the matter, Harry," said Abbey. "Nobody in the family must presume to have any thing to complain of in your presence. I suppose sickness always does make people selfish."

"Abbey!" said her mother, reprovingly.

"Oh, never mind her," said Harry, though his pale face flushed a little. "It is only Abbey, and we know her ways. There! Isn't that pretty?" he added, spreading out his work on his knee.

"Beautiful!" said his mother. "But don't work too long, my dear."

"Oh, I am not tired," said Harry. "I can work longer at it than at any thing I ever tried to do."

Abbey would fain have lingered a little, but her mother would not allow it, and she went on her way, not much comforted but somewhat aroused, by her visit at home. Could it really be possible that she was accountable for Totty's illness? Her mother had said nothing about it, and she would fain have dismissed the matter as one of Elvie's notions; but she could not resist the conviction which forced itself upon her own mind that Totty really had been ailing more or less ever since the accident, and she could not but remember the sound with which the back of the child's head came in contact with the door at the foot of the stairs.

It was not a pleasant thought, certainly, and, to get rid of it, Abbey began to look in at the shop-windows as she passed along. There was nothing very particular to see, till she came to a jeweller's window, in which was a great display of watches and ornaments, and at which she lingered, choosing which of all these fine things she would buy if she only had money enough, till she heard the clock strike twelve.

"There, now! I shall be late, and be scolded again. Every thing is against me today; but, luckily, there is the car."

Abbey congratulated herself on her good luck. She had pulled out two or three more of the old magazines over which she had already lost so much time, from a heap of such things in Mrs. Ward's garret: and she directly became so absorbed in her study that she did not notice which way she was going, till the conductor called out, "Union Street!" and she found she had come half a mile and more out of her way. There was no help for it but to sit still. The car would take her home in time, though by the longest route, and she would gain nothing by going back. It was nearly one when she arrived at Mrs. Powell's door, and became, for the first time, aware that she had left her basket behind her.

"There! Now there will be another fuss!" said Abbey, in an injured tone. "Oh, dear! I do wish I could ever have any peace or comfort!"